


Repairs

by Alipeeps



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor needs repairs, Episode Tag, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kinda, Other, Whump, and the repair tech is none too gentle, set after the fight with the Tracis, where Connor had a run-in with a screwdriver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 18:01:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15321147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alipeeps/pseuds/Alipeeps
Summary: Following the fight with the Tracis, Connor needs some repair work.





	Repairs

**Author's Note:**

> So I've headcannoned that, given that DPD uses android police officers, they almost certainly must have their own on-site facility for carrying out necessary repairs to their androids. I've decided the department is called Cybernetic Support Services - CSS for short.

The door to CSS slid open with a quiet whoosh as Hank slapped his hand on the access panel impatiently. He squeezed through the widening gap before the door had finished opening, looking quickly around the large, equipment-filled room. He’d never been down here before, never had any need to. It was all very sparse and clinical, shelving racks neatly stacked with tools and components, a row of android repair bays – each faintly glowing cubicle surrounded by data screens and sporting a set of white plasteel mechanical arms that Hank found vaguely unsettling. Two of the bays were occupied but the androids were standard-issue police models; one of them stared straight ahead with that vacant, emotionless gaze that Hank found so distasteful, the second appeared to be powered down, its eyes closed, its LED dark. The only sign of life in the room was a white-coated technician leaning into a repair bay in the far corner, his back to the door.

“Hey,” Hank called, “you still got Connor down here? Got a lead on the deviant case and I need…”

His words tailed off as the tech turned to look at him, stepping back to reveal Connor standing stiffly in the repair bay, staring straight ahead, just like the PM700 three bays down. For a brief moment Hank felt a frisson of what felt oddly like fear, and then Connor’s head turned toward him, tilting in that familiar, far-too-human way, and he calmly said, “My apologies, Lieutenant. My repairs are almost finished.”

Connor was shirtless, Hank realised, the synthetic skin removed from the left side of his chest, his upper chest and shoulder shining smooth and white. It seemed wrong, somehow, seeing him like this. He was so goddamn prim and proper in his shirt and tie and that stupid jacket and seeing him exposed like this was somehow at once too intimate and yet too clinical, leaving Hank with the uncomfortable feeling that he should apologise for walking in on him. 

The technician waved a small pair of pliers in agreement. “Gimme, like, 5 minutes and it’ll be good to go, Lieutenant.” He leaned back in to his work, leaving Hank standing awkwardly in the middle of the lab, feeling oddly like a voyeur as he watched the pliers probe deep into the thirium-smeared hole in Connor’s chest. Connor had turned his head back to stare placidly over the technician’s shoulder, seemingly oblivious to the metal implement digging around inside his chest cavity. Hank grimaced.

“I, err…” he gestured roughly over his shoulder, “I’ll wait for you outside…” 

Connor tilted his head again. “That is not necessary, Lieutenant. This will-“ He broke off suddenly, his head jerking to the side, eyelids fluttering rapidly for a second, just as the technician cursed and dropped his pliers.

“Sonofabitch!”

“-only take a moment,” Connor finished calmly. He frowned, his LED cycling yellow, and announced, “I am detecting a system short in component 5410f.”

“Yeah, no shit,” the technician complained, sucking his fingers.

“You okay, Connor?”

“It’s fine,” the technician interrupted testily, bending to retrieve his pliers. “Unlike me, it doesn’t feel pain.” 

Before Hank could respond, the tech was jamming the pliers none-too-gently back into the hole, the force making Connor sway backwards a fraction, the android giving a grunt just like when the Traci model had used a screwdriver to punch the hole into his chest. Logically Hank knew it was just a simulation, an automatic response programmed into Connor’s personality – a mimicry of the pain response designed to make him seem as human, as sympathetic, as possible. But that didn’t stop the unease tightening in Hank’s stomach.

Connor’s LED was still spinning yellow, a slight frown on his face, as the tech muttered under his breath, twisting and pushing with the pliers. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon… almost got it… almooost… shit!”

This time Connor’s head snapped up, his eyes rolling back, and his left arm jerked upwards, sending a tray of tools clattering to the floor.

“Sonofa..!” The technician tapped a couple of buttons on one of the datapads and the flexible plasteel arms swung into motion, two of them curving down to grip firmly around Connor’s wrists, pinning his arms in place at his side. Another one moved into place behind Connor, and his body rocked forward slightly as it connected somewhere with a muted clunk.

“Hey!” Hank was already moving forward, unease turning to anger, as Connor’s head came back down with a jerk and his eyes opened. His LED flashed red, yellow and back to red again.

“I can’t reach it,” the tech complained, “the hole’s too small…” He turned the pliers to grip the plasteel at the edge of the hole and began to apply twisting pressure. Connor looked down at his chest, his LED still cycling quickly from red to yellow and back again, and, synthethised or not, there was concern in his voice as he said, “Further damage to plasteel casing is not advisable….”

There was a sharp crack as the plasteel gave way and Hank could’ve sworn he saw Connor flinch. A gush of thirium bubbled out, bright blue and viscous, as the technician pried away the shard of plasteel.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Hank yelled.

“It’s fine,” he said, “I’ve gotta patch the hole in the casing anyway… and we can top up its thirium when I’m done…”

“Thirium levels now at 72%,” Connor commented coldly, and did Hank imagine a note of distaste in his voice? 

The tech plunged his pliers back into the now much bigger hole, and Hank watched with revulsion as more thirium welled from the cavity, trickling down Connor’s chest in thick rivulets. “Jesus,” he grimaced.

The tech threw him a grin over his shoulder and Hank tasted anger, hot and sour, at the back of his throat. “Don’t worry, Lieutenant.” He turned back to digging around inside Connor’s chest. “I told you, it doesn’t feel pain.”

Connor was staring over the technician’s shoulder again, his face unreadable, but his LED was flashing urgently – red-yellow-red-red-yellow-red…

Something inside Hank snapped taught, and he laid a heavy hand on the technician’s shoulder, making the man jump.

“No,” Hank agreed. “But he is a one of a kind prototype and he costs more than you could ever earn in a lifetime so how about you be a _little more careful_?” He punctuated his words with a quick squeeze, letting his anger simmer to the surface.

“Uhhh… s-sure, Lieutenant…” the technician paled, his eyes wide as he looked back at Connor uncertainly. Connor ignored him, his eyes still fixed impassively at a spot somewhere over the technician’s shoulder, but Hank could have sworn he saw the faintest hint of a smile curving his lips. 

The technician’s touch was a lot gentler now, a lot more careful, as he probed amongst the components that glowed and flickered inside Connor’s chest. “Nearly there…” he murmured, licking his lips, “I got it… I got it…” He grabbed a second set of pliers from a nearby tray and reached those into the hole alongside the first. Another glob of thirium trickled down Connor’s chest. Hank craned his neck to see the data screens.

WARNING: THIRIUM LEVEL AT 64%. 

Connor’s LED spun yellow and red… but more yellow now than red.

“Okay… just need to connect that… and that one…. and… there!”

Connor’s eyelids fluttered briefly, his eyebrows twitching into a frown, and then his face relaxed. “Functionality restored in component 5410f,” he announced.

“Good,” Hank grunted. “Now get him patched up. Time’s a-wastin’.”

It took the technician a few minutes to size and prepare a plasteel patch and he seemed glad of the excuse to get out from under Hank’s glare.

“You doin’ okay there?” Hank asked Connor.

“Yes thank you, Lieutenant. The damage has been fully repaired.”

Hank shook his head. “S’not what I meant,” he mumbled.

Connor nodded, his expression thoughtful. “He is right, however. I do not feel pain.”

“Don’t mean he oughta treat you like that though,” Hank growled. Machine or not, seeing Connor treated with such lack of care, as though he wasn’t even aware of what was being done to him, rankled.

He looked up to find Connor regarding him curiously, his LED shining blue. “Thank you, Lieutenant,” he said gravely.

Hank shrugged, the android’s gratitude, synthetic or not, making him uncomfortable. “Yeah, whatever…” He turned around, finding the technician approaching with the prepared patch. “We about done here?” he grumbled.

“Just one sec…” The technician laid the patch carefully over the jagged hole in Connor’s casing, smoothing over the edges with a special tool as they seemed to melt, fusing evenly with the plasteel below until not even a mark was left to show where the hole had been.

“Good as new!” the technician stepped back and tapped the datapad, the arms retracting smoothly, disengaging from Connor’s wrists and back. Connor flexed his wrists experimentally, rolling his head from side to side. His synthetic skin flowed back into place over his chest and shoulder and it belatedly occurred to Hank that they couldn’t very well go chase up his new lead with Connor looking like that.

“You uh… you got something you can wear?” he looked vaguely around the lab.

Connor smiled. “I ordered a new uniform from CyberLife on our way back to the station. It was delivered 11 minutes ago.”

“Good.” He gestured at the beaker of thirium that the technician was holding out to Connor. “He’ll take that to go. C’mon Connor… let’s get the hell out of here.”


End file.
